


Lucky it Was Hot Dogs

by ICanSpellConfusionWithAK



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 19:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICanSpellConfusionWithAK/pseuds/ICanSpellConfusionWithAK
Summary: The fact that his cause of death was a bad hot dog has some unexpected perks. It gives Luke a way to make it into a joke when he needs to but maybe it's not always funny. Maybe he wishes just once in awhile that he could talk to someone about the fact that he's...well...dead. Luckily Julie is up to the task.
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 137





	Lucky it Was Hot Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeamMightyPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamMightyPen/gifts).



> This was a gift for my friend T for the JATP gift exchange over on tumblr. I'm pink-flame over there if you want to join me!

In some ways Luke thinks that it’s lucky it was hot dogs. 

Of course, if he had been asked to choose a way to go back in 95 he probably would have said old and in his sleep. Or maybe he would have been a smart ass and said jumping the grand canyon on a motorcycle or playing an epic show in bad weather and having some sort of electrical incident (Reggie wasn’t the only one who had been involved in that amp incident not that he was in a hurry to tell Alex that). Contaminated hot dogs in an alley on the night of their big break probably wouldn’t have occurred to him and it definitely wouldn’t have cracked the top ten list of his requests. 

But now that he’s in the future, with his band and with Julie and with their dreams once again a real possibility...he thinks the hot dogs would have been the right choice. 

The truth is it doesn’t matter how tragic it is that three kids had their lives cut short at the same time it’s always going to be at least a _little_ bit funny that they went from death by hot dog. It lets him use the tragedy as a means of teasing Julie as she bites into her sandwich and it lets Willie give Alex an affectionate nickname that’s only a little in bad taste. It lets Reggie hover behind Ray when Julie’s dad gets the grill out and clutch his stomach dramatically in a reenactment for his friends amusement. It lets Julie look at Luke like the fact that he is a ghost is mildly exasperating but not inherently upsetting, not like it would be if he was a walking reminder of a car accident or the cancer that took her mom. 

So yeah, it’s lucky it was hot dogs. 

Except...sometimes Luke wishes that it wasn't. 

Sometimes he wishes that he had died from an illness or an accident or anything that would prompt someone to look at him and ask if he wanted to talk about it. Because...he does. Just sometimes. Wants to talk about how much it hurt. Wants to talk about how scared he was. Wants to talk about how even though being able to make music still (being able to make music with Julie) matters _most_ it does bother him. 

It bothers him that Julie is the only lifer he can touch (even though she would clearly be his first choice). 

It bothers him that he fades into non-existence as soon as they stop playing. 

It bothers him that he can’t even thank Julie’s dad for hosting their garage gig or show her brother that he’s holding it all wrong when he catches him strumming lightly on Luke’s guitar one day. 

It bothers him that he won’t ever be anything other than what he is, a teenager with a guitar and a longstanding suspicion about the consequences of wearing sleeves while performing. 

It bothers him that Julie will always be what she is now (an amazing teenage girl with a wrecking ball voice and a heart big enough to keep them with her through sheer force of will) but she will also become so much more. 

An adult. 

Someone with a job and a family and…

He can’t think about it. 

Except he _does._

Not all the time but often enough, especially at night when Alex is off with Willie and Reggie is watching tv with an unsuspecting Ray and Luke is wishing more than anything that he could find the escape of sleep. 

So usually he ends up writing when he feels like this, seeking out the familiar sensation of pen flying over paper, words tumbling from the deepest recesses of his mind to collect into the shape of a song. 

_I know I’m being selfish_

_But feeling alive isn’t being alive_

_Feeling you breathe isn’t breathing_

_I just want this feeling forever_

_Instead I count every moment I’m stealing_

“Why are you writing in the dark?” Julie’s amused voice cuts through the silence causing him to jump, a remnant of a time when he had anything to fear other than his own uncertain future. 

He’s not sure if it’s a ghostly superpower or just the fact that he had been peering at his notebook from only about an inch away but it’s true, he hadn’t bothered to turn the light on and he saw it just fine. 

The dark felt more appropriate somehow when he felt like this anyway. 

She flips on the light and crosses the room to sink down beside him where he’s spread out on the floor. He’s so distracted for a moment by just how _Julie_ she always manages to be (beautiful and amazing and distracting in the best way) that he doesn’t realize that she’s reaching for his notebook until it’s too late. He tries to snatch it back fruitlessly as she turns her eyes to the words he has scrawled across the page. He hopes momentarily that she won’t be able to make out his infamously illegible handwriting but his hopes are dashed when she reads out the last few lines in a thoughtful tone. He has a brief flash of affection at the realization that she must be his soulmate if she can read his handwriting. 

He’s distracted from that thought though when he sees the smile slide off of her face only to be replaced with a tight frown before she turns to face him, concern shining in her eyes. 

“I’m fine,” He says quickly, hoping to prevent any of his dark mood from seeping into the girl beside him. 

The girl who has already known enough darkness for a lifetime. 

“Every moment you’re stealing?” She quotes back to him, setting the notebook carefully back on the floor. “That doesn’t sound fine.” 

He considers brushing off her concern, playing it off, claiming he’s not even writing from his own perspective anyway, that he doesn’t know where the idea came from. 

He can do that because he may be dead but the culprit was _hot dogs_ and that gives him an out to make a dumb joke and change the subject and keep things the way they are now. 

And if it was anyone else he would have. But it’s Julie. And he’s Luke. 

She can read his handwriting. 

And she can read him too. 

If he lets her. 

“You know how you said your dad made you talk to someone after your mom died?” 

She tilts her head, clearly not expecting this question. She answers it anyway. 

“Dr. Turner,” She nods. “Three times a week for a while.” 

“Did it uh…” Luke swallows hard, his throat suddenly impossibly dry considering he was pretty sure he wasn’t actually producing spit anymore period. “Did it help?” 

Julie’s hand twitches in her lap and he can tell she is deciding whether she should touch him. He reaches out to toy with the frayed edge of her jeans where they burst open at the knee. The answer to whether Julie should be touching him is always a resounding _yes_ in his opinion but he also wants to let her come to him. It hasn’t been that long since they’ve even been able to touch each other and despite how much they crave it there’s a lingering awkwardness after all the build up. 

“Talking to someone?” She asks carefully. “Yeah, it did. After a while I felt like I needed space to sort through things on my own but by then I was able to talk with my dad and Flynn too.” 

He nods, keeps his eyes firmly on the hole in her jeans. 

“Luke…” 

Damn. 

He has to look at her when she says his name like that. 

He raises his eyes slowly, meeting her soft ones with nerves he can’t quite place. 

“You know you can talk to me, right? Always.” 

Her question is so small and yet so big at the same time. Such a simple offer containing such a big promise. 

_Always_. 

Wasn’t that the problem?

His always might not line up with hers. 

He could forget that fact for a bit when the band was hanging out and laughing over nothing or rocking a crowd’s face’s off or when Julie was smiling in that certain _Julie_ way that seemed reserved only for him. 

But he couldn’t forget forever. 

And he couldn’t promise always. 

So where did that leave him? 

“Luke?” 

She breaks him from his thoughts again and he pushes past his caution this time, reaching out to link her hand with his, their fingers slotting together effortlessly despite the way one of them isn’t really there. 

He isn’t really there. 

Is he...real?

Luke suddenly feels a strange rush of panic, all of the thoughts he’s been pushing aside for months crashing through him at once. 

He must have squeezed Julie’s hand inadvertently because he sees her flinch. 

“Sorry, sorry,” He says breathlessly (not that he needs to breathe, he’s breathless, literally, he’s _dead_ ), drawing her hand up to press an apology against the skin there, his lips lingering for a long moment before he pulls away. 

She’s not unaffected by his sudden actions, the way her eyes widen for a fraction of a second is proof enough of that, but she’s also determined and she doesn’t let him off the hook. 

“Talk to me, Luke,” She says like an order and a request and a prayer all at once. 

And he can’t deny her anything. 

Not even this. 

“I’m fine, I am...it’s just...I’m so happy that we ended up here with you Julie no matter what. I need you to know that ok? I just..I don’t...I don’t want…” 

She waits as long as she can for him to finish that sentence but when he doesn’t seem prepared to, she leans closer, squeezes his hand, gives him that last push off the cliff he’s been teetering on the edge of for months. 

“Don’t want what?” 

“Don’t want to be dead.” 

The words escape him in a hurried rush, one blending into another until it sounds like one long syllable of pain rather than a proper sentence. Still. He’s pretty sure the message got through. 

“I know,” She says simply, her eyes sad but her touch impossibly gentle as her free hand comes up to cup his cheek. “I know, Luke, I know.” 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until she’s brushing his tears away with the delicate tips of her fingers. 

And maybe he _is_ real, at least a little bit if his eyes can still muster up the ability to leak like this and _damn it_ why is that what he’s thinking about right now when the girl, the living girl, he loves is waiting for him to _say something_.

He wants to think of the perfect thing but what ends up coming out leaves a lot to be desired. 

“Julie...I love making music with you. I love y...I love being in your life. But I’m _dead_. And maybe...maybe it would be better…” 

“No,” She cuts him off firmly, gripping his chin lightly to turn his face more fully towards hers. “Whatever you think you’re about to say, the answer is no.” 

“Julie…” He tries again. 

She’s already shaking her head. 

“I don’t care if you’re about to suggest some noble sacrifice or push me away or blame yourself for something...just...don’t.” 

Any protest he has prepared dies on his lips, the slightest quirk of a smile taking their place even as a few stray tears make their way down his face. 

“Ok,” He agrees simply. 

Julie brings her other hand down to grip his knee as though she’s trying to keep him with her by anchoring him physically, making him part of her, making him _real_. 

And that’s that. 

It takes time. 

A hundred aborted conversations with half confessions and unspoken requests for comfort and love freely given if not freely spoken. 

But eventually he gets used to talking to Julie the same way he got used to writing with Julie and singing with Julie and falling in love with Julie. 

So steadily he doesn’t feel the progress until one day he looks up and there’s no going back, not that he would ever want to. 

He’s dead. 

He can’t get around that. 

He ate some bad hot dogs, and that will always be a little bit funny. It’s also sad and scary and tragic. 

He’s dead. 

But he’s also _so_ alive. 

He can’t promise _always_ but can promise _as long as I’m here_. 

And he does. 

Over and over and over again.

  
  



End file.
